Flesh and Bone
by mezzogal
Summary: Based on this prompt: John runs after Sherlock without getting his coat, Sherlock gives John his scarf. Oneshot. Friendship fic.


It was the goriest case John and Sherlock had worked on. The victim's face and most of his upper torso looked like it had been eaten, down to the bone in some spots. Sherlock had no trouble deducing why the murder happened and who did it. The only question left that he could not answer was how.

The tall thin man paced restlessly around the flat that night, occasionally throwing dirty looks at the collage of photographs that were tacked to the wall – photos of the victim's wound from every possible angle and magnification. Off to the side, John was seated comfortably in his armchair reading a newspaper. He had already contributed all he could towards the case, though Sherlock had not thought it was very much at all.

"Sherlock, just let it go," John said. "The whole problem is moot. You've caught the killer, he's been arrested and there's enough evidence to convict him. Case closed."

Sherlock paused and gave John a scathing glare. "Just when I thought you couldn't possibly get any duller, you say something stupid like that," he said. "Aren't you even the slightest bit curious about how he did it? Look," he strode to the photographs and pointed out features. "It's not an animal attack – there's no sign of a struggle. It's not acid or other known chemical. Something removed the skin, flesh and muscle from this man in a matter of hours and left no trace. There's no flesh-eating agent that can work this fast. How can you not want to know?"

"Maybe because, unlike you, I'm not obsessed with knowing all there is to know," John suggested. "Unlike you, I don't mind a little mystery in my life."

"Mystery." Sherlock spat out the word like it tasted bad. "Mysteries are meant to be solved. They are puzzles to exercise your mental faculty. Larger, more interesting puzzles than just crosswords in the paper."

"Crosswords are what normal people do, Sherlock," John pointed out.

"Normal is boring," Sherlock retorted. "There's no challenge, no real game. Normal is nothing. You settling for mediocrity is settling for being nothing."

John said nothing after those remarks. For once, Sherlock seemed to notice. He turned to his friend and asked: "Have I offended you?"

"Little bit, yeah," John replied.

Sherlock did not respond to that. He did another lap round the flat in silence. Then, without warning, he strode to the coat rack and put on his coat.

"Are you going somewhere?" John asked.

"Experiment," Sherlock replied. "Coming?" John did not reply so Sherlock just left without him.

John was relieved to have the flat to himself. Sherlock's presence and occasionally condescending attitude could be overwhelming. And at the moment, John was not suffering for his flatmate's company. Sherlock could go and apply whatever unconventional, unthinkable method of removing flesh from corpses his twisted brain could come up with by himself; John wanted no part in it.

He glanced at the photos. He had not really looked closely at them before now. He had examined the body at Sherlock's behest of course, and had no desire to let those gory images remain in his mind for longer than necessary to solve the case.

However, he had to admit, the scientific part of him was curious about how it had happened. There was something strangely familiar about the wounds and John struggled to put his finger on it. He stared at the photos, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory. Then, like a bolt from the blue, it struck him.

He immediately dashed out of the flat, running to catch up with Sherlock before his friend broke into the morgue and got arrested for corpse desecration.

Luckily, Sherlock had not gotten far. "Sherlock!" John shouted to get his attention. "Wait! I know what did it!"

Sherlock halted and waited for John to reach him and catch his breath. When he deemed that sufficient time had passed, he asked impatiently: "Well?"

"I was looking at the photos after you left and thought the wounds looked familiar," John explained. "Then it hit me, I had seen it before. Not on such an extensive scale, but I had seen it."

"Get on with it, man!" Sherlock snapped.

"It was in Afghanistan. A soldier came in one morning with his bunkmate. The other bloke was a mess. His arm was bloody and flesh and muscle was gone. Turned out a camel spider had bitten him during the night and feasted on him. They do that. They hide in dark corners under bunks or in blankets and emerge at night. When they bite, they inject a numbing agent so their prey feels no pain. I saw a few cases of camel spider bites out of Afghanistan but that was the worse."

"The murderer did a tour in Afghanistan not too long ago," Sherlock recalled.

"It wouldn't be hard for him to smuggle one or two of the spiders into London. I'd say at least two big ones. One spider alone couldn't eat that much," John said.

Sherlock considered what his friend told him. "John, this is a very crucial piece of information," he concluded.

"Great, let's go then," John said. "Its late. I forgot to put on my coat, and it's cold."

Sherlock unwound the dark blue scarf around his neck and handed it to John. "Here," he said. "Come on." He continued walking down the street.

John knotted the warm scarf round his neck. "Wait a minute, Sherlock, the flat's the other way," he pointed out.

"I didn't say we were going home," Sherlock called. "We're going to go find ourselves a camel spider and test your hypothesis. Coming?"

John threw his hands up exasperatedly in the air then ran after his friend again.

THE END


End file.
